Sherlock and the Misadventure
by penguinsskrp
Summary: It's been a few weeks since Sherlock's return, but is everything as it should be? And what does any of this have to do with Moriarty? What happens when 3 of our favorite characters suddenly find themselves stuck in a locked room? Why are they here? What's going on? / Sorry, hopefully the story is better than the summery, r&r please! :)


**/ Rated T for now, might change it later for language and other things ;) this could possibly turn into a romance, possibly Sherlock/Moriarty . . . just so you know . . .anyway! I hope you enjoy! Thanks again for reading! **

One month and 4 days earlier. . .

It wasn't the lack of familiarity that triggered his senses aware, but rather the lack of Westwood, polyester and cotton that normally encompassed him. It wasn't that the room was dark that unsettled him, nor the stillness of silence. It was not because his hands and feet were bound that fear came 'a knocking' about. It wasn't even the fact that _no one_ knew where he was. And yet,

And yet, he felt an overwhelming sense that he needed to escape whatever mysterious place this was. Whatever crime had been committed or was to be committed. Somewhere, in his mind of swirling insanity a voice told him to "get the hell out of Doge". And so, he set to it, testing his bonds, pulling, twisting, yanking, nothing seemed to work. He could feel the harsh material cutting into his flesh. Still he kept at it. The coldness of his chair pressed into his back, an involuntary shiver running through him. But he didn't seem to notice, his mind in other places. He _needed_ to get out. Something wasn't right the little voice told him. This was not _good._ This place was not _good. _He ignored the growing sense of panic, instead taking deep breaths to calm himself. He would _not_ give in to something so silly as fear or dread. That was what _they _did and _he _was nothing like them. He was _different. _

But he wasn't alone. . .

A figure twitched in a dim room, eyes locked on another form. A man; bound to his chair, pulling, twisting and yanking at his bonds. A cruel smile spread onto the figures face. There was no escaping now.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

28 days earlier . . .

It had to be some kind of conspiracy, that or the universe just really liked to screw with his life. Either way he wasn't sure if it was a blessing his old flat mate had suddenly arisen from the grave, or a curse. Don't get him wrong, Watson was more than overjoyed when Sherlock (yes _the_ Sherlock, aka, worlds best consulting detective) showed up on his door step. Needless to say it was a rather heart worming experience, minus the beginning in which, Watson took to spewing all kinds of things one should only hear in the military. He even threw the tea kettle at one point. But eventually after hours of explaining and days of apologizing, Watson did forgive him. Things had slowly settled back into their normal routine. And Watson; on more than one occasion wondered if Sherlock had ever really left. Then he would remember the months where he sat alone, in his (theirs) empty flat, thinking of all the ways he could have changed the past. And he was overcome with emotion, sometimes to the point where he would flat out hug Sherlock for no reason other than to reassure himself the man was in fact real. Sherlock on his part understood Johns need to make sure he was real. The detective truly had felt bad for disappearing, for putting his best friend through something he still wasn't sure had been a necessary. But he had, and he was willing to do whatever it took to fix the gap that was now separating them. Unfortunately once John knew Sherlock was back, it had only been a matter of time before the whole of London found out as well. And sure enough, not even three weeks in did he receive a personal visit from his brother, Mycroft. Now, needless to say Watson was still a bit upset at the elder Holmes for giving away such information to his own brothers arch nemesis. Well alright, he was still pissed. So the meeting didn't go nearly as Mycroft had hopped nor expected. But he did get to speak with his brother and after a good hour and half of conversing (all the while with John glaring in the background) the two Holmes brothers made up. Or rather, Sherlock convinced his brother that he did not blame him for Moriarty's plan. He did however hope that his brother would never divulge anything about him again to anyone. Mycroft swore he would, after apologizing profoundly and even giving his little brother a hug, he quickly and busily left their flat. Unfortunately for Sherlock, that would not be the only visit from a familiar face he would receive. Three days and exactly five hours later, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade practically came charging through their door, poor Mrs. Hudson trailing frantically behind (she had been just as elated as Watson to know Sherlock was alive, chiding John when he threw her favorite tea pot). Lestrade stood a whole thirty-two seconds before socking Sherlock straight in the face. It was quite the greeting one had to admit. After a few shouts and missed swings (mostly due to the fact Watson was now standing between the two gentlemen) Lestrade gave up and backed away, still throwing silent curses over his shoulder. However, as the evening progressed, things seemed to calm, and Lestrade, despite being thoroughly pissed, did admit he was glad to see him. The three enjoyed a nice hot cup of tea before the inspector said he had to leave. Yet on his way out he pulled the taller man into a giant bear hug, only releasing him to offer up information on a case. Sherlock politely declined saying he wasn't quite ready to solve any crimes yet. Lestrade had to respect that and with another half/side hug he left. The two then, went back to enjoying their teas, and hopefully the rest of their evening. Watson smiled as he mulled over the past few weeks including Mycroft's and Lestrade's visit. Things could have been worse, he thought silently as he looked over at his friend. A laugh suddenly bubbled out of his chest as the doctor noted with much humor that the inspector, despite having offered up a crime to solve, had not apologized for punching the detective in the face.

Even in all his and Sherlock's mirth, neither would have expected it to end so quickly. Across the street of 221b, a figure stood alone in the darkness, a cruel smile spread onto its face.


End file.
